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Personal narratives sociology
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Personal narratives sociology
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It's six o'clock. From down the hall, I hear my mother's footsteps approaching. The door opens.
"Time to get up!"
I make the journey from my warm bed to the hard oak of the kitchen table downstairs. Racing thoughts about the day's events, upcoming tests, hours of inevitable homework are silenced as the Miles Davis sextet walks out onto the stage in my mind. There's a round of applause and the group starts playing.
The men look at Paul Chambers on bass as he thumbs the familiar riff of "So What." My focus is not on him, however; my eyes digress to the sparkling silver Gretsch drums in the middle of the stage. This is what I've been waiting for. Philly Joe Jones sits behind the carefully crafted set and, in a couple of measures, digs into his ride cymbal while keeping time with his left foot on the hi-hat pedal, his face shining with sweat, his smile beaming excitement, every pore of his body oozing jazz.
I finish my eggs and
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The bell rings, time for seventh period BC Calc and another derivative quiz. I methodically go through the formulae in my head. Should I use the quotient rule, or change the exponent of the second function and use the multiplication rule with the chain rule? I feel like Philly Joe given a straight-ahead 4/4 bop groove; he could keep it at 4 or he could spice it up with two groups of 3 and one group of 2 with quick Swiss Army triplet fills. My hands express the mathematical directives in my head, they feed one off the other, just as Elvin Jones grooves off the blazing solos of Trane. While trading fours, Coltrane blares out sixteenth-note triplets and Jones responds with thirty-second notes between the snare, the toms, and his vintage Zildjian Ks. My quiz asks me for the derivative of a complicated polynomial — my pencil draws variables, exponents, coefficients and parentheses, much the way Elvin responds to the tenor sax with comping paradiddles, accents, ruffs and cymbal hits. The solo is finished; I hand in the
I come home from college and see my mom cooking dinner over the stove as I walk up the stairs. My tiredness sets in as I rush to my room to put down my heavy bag. My mom yells to me as I start to change my clothes.
Imagine attending a concert in which if you were to close your eyes, you would assume that the music you are hearing is being created by a cast of band members, each playing their respective instruments. Contrary to your assumptions, however, this band only consists of one member. Keller Williams, dubbed by critics as a one-man-band, is one of a kind both in his musical talent and his solo act. Very few solo musicians have mastered such a multi-dimensional sound and captivating live show as Keller, making him standout amongst today’s musicians. Keller’s ability to perform improvisational live shows, form a large and dedicated fan base, and share the beliefs and attitudes of the hippie generation has given him the musical identity of the jam band genre in addition to his personal identity of being a solo act.
Everything for a year had been leading up to this point and here I was in the middle of the happiest place on earth in tears because my friends had abandoned me in the middle of Disney on the senior trip.
The drummer not only envisions ingratiating chamber movements to be delivered in “Part 5”, calling Schoenbeck’s bassoon to the center, but also reserves the final section for his own percussive
Just then his mother lets out a exasperated moan, then says “Fine, fine. I’ll be down stairs in a minute, breakfast is on the table when ever you’re ready”. The woman finishes her sentence just as she’d escaped into the laundry room, shutting the door with the heel of her
Then she realized that she probably should tell her mother where she was going less she would face her wrath later. “Mother! Mother!” She called her hand on the door knob. Instead of her mother, her father appeared in the hallway.
Once I let my thoughts return to the music, I knew what lie ahead of me. I tapped the nearest "big guy" on the shoulder and pointed towards the ceiling; the universal signal on the concert floor. He nodded, grabbed my foot, and pushed me on top of the crowd. Once I was up there was no turning back. Soon strong hands were surfing me towards the stage. I had the best view in the house and reveled in the moment. I was fueled by an adrenaline rush that was only heightened by the fusion of the music and the energy of the crowd.
All of a sudden, the two paper double doors quickly open causing the room to fall silent. Four woman walk in the room in silence. They walk toward the table in formation with two in the front and two in the back. In the middle of these woman, walks a handsome black-haired man dressed in a deep wine red, black and gold robe. "Father!"
On February 21, 2016, I, Deputy John Arnold, went to 11747 West 105th Street South to assist another deputy in reference to a fight in progress.
It’s midnight. I’m hunched over my desk trying to come up with a book concept that’s due at 08:00 tomorrow. I step outside onto my balcony and hear jazz music. Jazz isn’t particularly my type of music, but whoever is playing it is very talented, and as a musician I could recognize that. I decide to take my personal elevator down to the ground floor to see who’s playing.
Feeling the waves crash against the edge of my little Butterfly and lapping over the sides onto me, I flew through the water. I held the ropes and rudder securely in my hands as I aimed straight for the sailboat ahead of me and, beyond the other boat, the buoy. All was going well when suddenly a wind gust came in, and I knowingly kept the sails sheeted in with the intent of getting back into the race. Despite struggling to keep control over the boat, I felt the sail tip and plummet into the water below. I fell over backwards into the refreshing water as I watched my competitors sail on. This happened again and again and I am pretty sure I set a new record for the most capsizes in a Camp Michigania teen regatta. Ever. Period.
This morning, I woke to my mom leaning over my bed. "Spencer, my sweet, wake up. We're going to visit Grandma today," she
Detective Hunter Sloane, the top recruit of his graduating class and the first promoted to detective, thanks to his hound dog instincts, and relentless determination, had a new case. It took eight years, but he’d earned boasting rights and the respect of his peers and yet he remained humble. Though to be fair, his comrades did it for him. “With no cold cases to speak of, he’s simply the best at what he does,” someone said.
When I was about four or five years old I had to get my tonsils taken out which are located in the back of your mouth. A few weeks had passed and my mom had realized that my neck was a little swollen. My mom then made an appointment with the doctor and when he looked at my throat he said it was time. I then found out after they finished taking out my tonsils from my mouth they had said I should’ve woke up 10 minutes before , but ( I didn't ). When I finally woke up from what I call a long sleep all I remember was me walking into a room and fainting on the floor in front of a little girl. When they rushed me back to the emergency room they said I started to gush out blood from my mouth.
Too late. I could already hear my mothers graceful footsteps ascend the stairs. She carefully opened the door that entered my kitchen, and I flung myself into her arms. My mother yelped with shock and a hint of exhaustion, “Meggie honey, Mommy is very tired. Please be a little more careful next time.”